You enter a house. It seems as though time is passing, but your watch is stuck. You remain indoors for over four days, but the sun does not set. You check the clock on the wall. Perhaps the clock on the wall is stuck, too.
By the third day of fall, your field is overrun with yams. Every two-to-three days, the seed packet says, they will bring you their fruit. They are here to stay until the winter comes. A chicken wanders into the leaves one day and does not return. You pray that the slowly-closing distance between them and your home is only your imagination.
You do not listen to what the villagers say anymore, because the words are the same every day. When their phrases change, it is because they love you more than they did before, or perhaps less. Either way, you are pleased.
Sometimes, there are sprites, coming to request your help in candy-colored hats. Most people cannot see them; those who can have suffered great loss. Wives. Mothers. Themselves. You must help us, the sprites tell you. You are the chosen one. You sometimes wonder how many others were chosen, too, and how much this will cost.
You came from the city. Which city? It does not matter. Why can’t you return? That does not matter, either. The air is cleaner here, the villagers say. The water is clearer here. The peace is entrancing here. It’s so nice to be away from the city. Why would you ever want to leave? Turn away from the valley entrance and return to your farm. There is nothing out there for you.
izzy806
turnnoffyourmind
vaporwave
andulkaphoto
areudirty
